


There's Drunk and Then There's Whatever You Are

by archerdork



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, One Shot, Swearing, can be read as pre-slash or just friendsies, u do u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerdork/pseuds/archerdork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Remember that video of the super drunk guy who'd wandered into a stranger's house thinking it was his own? Yes, that video.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Got like eight WIP fics but starts a new one and finishes that one first, HELLO it me. As usual, this is mostly thanks to my friend @ahrent. Check her out, she got AMAZEBALLS destiel fics, like seriously, a m a z e b a l l s.

Dean wasn’t a heavy sleeper by any means, but it wasn’t like he startled awake at every little sound either. There were the nights when he had trouble sleeping, sure, but most of the time he fell asleep and stayed that way until the alarm went off in the morning.

So when he blinked his eyes open to a silent and dark room, he wasn’t sure why. Clearly it wasn’t morning; turning his head toward the clock on the nightstand informed him it was just after 4 am. Outside the window was the faint noise of a city that never entirely went to sleep, but nothing he hadn’t long ago learned to tune out. He wasn’t thirsty, didn’t need to pee, he couldn’t even remember having dreamed, nothing definitive to explain why he was suddenly wide awake in the middle of the night.

He had just about decided to ignore it and attempt to go back to sleep when he heard the thud of something heavy but soft hitting the floor, followed by a muffled “ow”, from the other side of his closed bedroom door.

If he hadn’t been awake before, he sure as hell was now.

For a moment Dean was frozen in place, staring at his bedroom door like it would come alive at any moment to explain why his living room was making noises it shouldn’t. At which point he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

He threw the covers away and slipped to his feet in one swift, silent movement, his heart already beating a tidal wave of adrenaline into his bloodstream. There was a baseball bat under his bed stuffed there between boxes, and he reached under and grabbed it before treading slowly toward the door. He knew full well he looking every bit of the cliché he was being, but he’d be damned if he was going to be murdered in his own home in only a pair of washed out plaid pyjama pants without putting up a fight.

Dean paused by the door, listening and hearing only a faint shuffle. He considered his options, but honestly he couldn’t come up with much. It didn’t sound like more than one person, but honestly it was pretty hard to tell. He could probably take one person. Unless that person had a gun, in which case it would make for a decidedly short fight. He could stay where he was, maybe even hide in a closet, but the person might eventually come into the bedroom and Dean sure as hell would prefer making a head-on attack rather than being found cuddled up in a corner. Not to mention the fact that his person had _broken into his apartment_. Dean was getting pretty angry about that when he took a second to consider it.

Which was why he ended up shoving the bedroom door open, despite the loud objections from the logic voice in his head _(which at the moment sounded very much like Sam),_ the baseball bat raised over his head.

The living room was empty, which was kind of an anticlimax.

He stood there for several quiet moments, wondering if he’d actually imagined everything and if that was the case, if he should perhaps worry about the state of his sanity, when a cold breeze caught his attention.

The window was open. Dean was _very_ sure he had not left it open.

As on cue, there was a noise, this time from the kitchen, and Dean’s grip tightened around the bat as he moved toward it, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering in his chest and a surprising amount of resolution in his gut. He’d not worked his damn ass off to finally afford to live in a _(relatively)_ nice apartment of his own only to be robbed blind by some damn criminal, not if he had anything to say about-

He almost stumbled over the shoe.

A shoe. A single, lonely shoe was lying on its side halfway across the living room. It wasn’t Dean’s shoe. Nor was it his jacket, a trench coat by the looks of it, lying on the floor another couple of steps further toward the kitchen, like someone had just shrugged it off their shoulders and kept walking. Dean stared between the shoe and the coat and then fixed his eyes on the kitchen doorway. He could hear shuffling from inside, then the sound of the fridge being pulled open as the dim light of it seeped into the living room.

Yeah no. That was about enough of whatever the fuck this was.

Dean took the last couple of steps toward the doorway, one hand tight around the baseball bat and the other reaching to flick the light switch. The room flooded with light, almost blinding him for a second, which apparently was nothing compared what it did to his unwanted guest.

The unwanted guest in question was a man that looked about as far from a burglar as you could get. Granted his hair was a bit ruffled and he had the general expression of someone who had had a shot or three too many, but the shirt, pants and tie he was wearing, not to mention the watch on his wrist, seemed like the pricey kind and he had the general air of a ordinary, non-descript, if kinda handsome, paper pusher. Definitely not someone giving off the ‘dangerous criminal’ vibe. As the light came on he let out a pained yelp and swung one arm up to shield his eyes and thrusted the other one in the general direction of Dean. In it he was holding a spoon.

What the actual fuck?

“Wha- Who- Whatisgoingon?” The man was making jerky motions with the spoon, wielding it like the saddest excuse for a sword. He lowered his other arm as to look at Dean, but instead flinched back from the light once again and ended up stumbling into the counter, nearly falling over. “Who are you?”

Dean stared.

What the fuck else could he do? The guy was clearly drunk off his ass, and had still managed to get into Dean’s apartment, Dean’s _locked_ apartment, to- what? Raid the fucking fridge? Steal his cheap cutlery?

“Who I am?” Dean said, taking a new grip around the baseball bat despite the fact that he could probably make this guy fall over with one finger. “Who the fuck are _you_? What are you doing in my apartment?”

There was a beat of silence, as the guy squinted at him.

“This- This is my apartment,” he said, pointing the spoon toward the floor as for emphasis. “What are you doing in _my_ apartment?”

...no seriously. What the actual godforsaken _fuck_? This was Dean’s fucking luck wasn’t it? Some people woke up to find rats swimming up their toilets or possums rumbling through their trash but not Dean, oh no, he wakes up to find a drunk ass _person_ in his kitchen.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” He said, letting the baseball bat drop and scrubbed a hand over his face. “This is my apartment, asshole.”

“I- That was rude.” The stranger gave an honest to god pout, and Dean didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or yell. “And it’s my apartment. I live here. You-” He pointed the spoon at Dean, swaying dangerously as he did. “-you don’t live here. Because this is my apartment. Because I live here.”

“No, this is my-” Dean cut himself off, clearly this wasn’t working and he wasn’t in the mood to stand here looking like an idiot. “Look, dude, you’re drunk, okay? You’ve wandered into my apartment somehow and-” Pausing, he glancing over his shoulder at the open window in the living room. “Wait, did you climb in through the window?”

The guy craned his neck, looking past Dean at the window. “I climbed through the window,” he agreed, somehow sounding like he wasn’t entirely convinced but going with it.

Dean stared.

“I live on the fifth floor.”

“Uh, _I_ live on the fifth floor. And there’s a fire escape.”

“But the window was locked.”

“There’s- I have a... a trick.” He made a jerky motion with one arm, like he was pushing something with his shoulder, then looked up with a lopsided grin like it was something to be proud of.

Dean felt a little like banging his head against the wall. Instead he leaned against the doorway with a sigh, shaking his head.

“You’re so drunk, man.”

“That... I am,” the stranger nodded, then turned toward the fridge again, which was still open. He frowned, “There’s no peanut butter,” he said eventually, something between a statement and a question.

“No,” Dean agreed. “Because it’s my fridge and I don’t have any peanut butter.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Is this my apartment?”

Finally.

“No, dude, I’m telling you, it’s not.” Dean couldn’t help but smile a little. The confusion on the guy’s face was hilarious. He’d though Sam was a confused drunk, but this was even better.

“I think I used to live here,” the stranger said slowly, eyes wandering over the kitchen before settling on Dean. He squinted again, like he had trouble focusing, and tilted his head a little to the side. “But now you live here?”

“Since about March, yeah.”

Silence again. Dean could practically see the cogs turning in the guy’s head.

“March.” He nodded to himself. “I moved in March. And now I’m back.”

“Yeah, sorry but you’re not getting the apartment back.”

That earned him an annoyed look.

“Back in the city. Not- Not back... here,” he gestured to the apartment in general, and Dean scoffed.

“Well, buddy, you kinda are though.”

The stranger seemed to deflate a bit. He looked at the spoon in his hands for a moment, then put it down on the counter and rubbed his hands over his face.

“I’m in the wrong apartment,” he said, voice muffled by his own hands. There was a sober finality to the words, tiredness, understanding and maybe a little embarrassment. Dean could relate. Honestly, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done weirder when he’d been drunk. He sighed, pushing himself off the doorway.

“You got someone I can call?”

He got nothing but a blank look back.

“Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, considering his options. Guy didn’t look like he was in a state to take himself anywhere, so just shoving him out the door didn’t seem like a good option, especially since it’d gotten pretty chilly at night lately. He could call the cops and have them pick him up, but he seemed like a nice guy, despite everything, especially with the confused puppy eyes he had going on right now, and Dean didn’t actually want him getting into trouble. Not to mention how much the police station’s drunk tank sucked in general.

The fridge started beeping; angrily objecting to being left open too long, and they both flinched. The stranger just stared at it, and when Dean sighed and took a step forward to push it close, he seemed to shake himself and gave a little nod.

“I- I got to go,” he said, taking a step forward and promptly lost his balance, almost falling over again. Dean instinctively reached forward, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him upright again.

“Uhm, how about you sleep on my couch tonight, yeah?” He found himself saying, and wow, yeah, Sam was going to have a riot about this one. The guy was looking at Dean’s hand on his arm, a deer-in-headlight kind of look.

“I- No? That wouldn’t be- I should- um,” he said, struggling to take another step. Dean loosened his grip but didn’t let go. Last thing he needed right now was for the guy to fall over and crack his head open on the kitchen table or something.

“Hey, dude, you’re in no shape to walk home right now, you’re gonna pass out in a alley somewhere and get your pretty ass mugged.”

“This is not my apartment,” the stranger repeated, and Dean laughed.

“Oh, I am well aware. But I’m offering, okay? And couch’s comfy.”

The stranger finally looked up at him, still frowning and bleary eyed, but with such intent that Dean had to stop himself from shifting uncomfortably. Guy was shitfaced drunk and still looked like he was about to start psychoanalyzing him. And, just, fuck no.

He was almost about to say something, anything, when the guy relaxed and dropped his head forward with a sigh.

“Okay.”

 

And it was that easy. When Dean tugged at his arm, the man followed easily, albeit needing some help moving in a straight line to not faceplant into the kitchen doorway. With combined efforts they made it to the couch without inflicting harm to neither body nor furniture, where Dean left him to go get an extra blanket. While he was at it he grabbed the bathroom trashcan and put in a new bag, bringing it as well. There’d been no sign of impending puke so far, but why risk it.

When he returned, the stranger was sitting hunched over, tugging futilely at the shoe that was still on his foot. Dean stopped in the doorway to take in the scene. Dear god, it was both sad and kind of adorable.

He walked over and put the blanket on the couch and the trashcan beside it. The man looked up, mumbling something that sounded like ‘thanks’, and then turned back at his shoe and stared at it like he was trying to remove it with mind control. Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what else he should do.

“So. What’s your name?” He asked, when the silence got a little too unbearable.

“My name is Castiel.” The guy's face scrunched up, and he kicked at his shoe. “What kind of name is that? Castiel. Stupid, pretentious parents.”

“Uhm,” Dean said, because what the fuck else do you say to that? Castiel kicked at his shoe again, missing completely, and yeah no, Dean was too tired for this shit.

“Just- let me,” he said, getting down on one knee and beginning to untie the shoe. Castiel didn’t say anything, but Dean could feel eyes on his head, and very carefully didn’t look up as he pulled the shoe off and put it beside the couch and got up. “Uhm, toilet’s down the hall if you-” he started, then cut himself off. “But you know that.”

_Nicely done there Dean. Now just get out of here before you make an idiot of yourself._

“If you get sick, aim for the trashcan, yeah?” He said instead. Castiel hummed, already sliding down to horizontal position and pulling the blanket over himself. Dean turned around, maybe a little abruptly but he was not about to stand there awkwardly watching Castiel fall asleep.

Instead he went to close the window, making a mental note to ask Castiel how all the fucking hell he’d managed to get through it despite it being locked, then headed for his bedroom. He paused by the door, glancing over his shoulder at the figure on the couch.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he found himself saying.

“Dean,” Castiel mumbled sleepily, and with that Dean slipped into his bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel woke up just after 8.30 AM, with a suffering groan and a couple of colourful curses.

Dean had already been up a couple of hours and was in the midst of making coffee. He’d only manage a couple of hours of uneasy sleep; it wasn’t that he thought Castiel would rob him if he slept, but he’d been raised to be at least somewhat suspicious about everything, and combined with the adrenaline rush waking up to a stranger in his kitchen had been, he hadn’t felt very much like sleeping. He wasn’t exactly feeling well rested and cheerful at the moment, which still didn’t seem to come close to what Castiel was experiencing, by the sound of it .

“Morning,” Dean called.

The living room got very, very quiet.

He flicked on the coffeemaker and strolled over to the doorway, hands in his pocket, trying to look less awkward than he was feeling. Castiel was sitting up, just barely, one hand breached against the couch and the other rubbing across his face. He looked up as Dean approached.

He looked different. Yesterday – well, night – he’d seemed wild-eyed and confused, now there was something calm and serious over his features, something that fitted better with the nice clothes and general business-man/accountant look. He was also kinda looking like shit, bags under bloodshot eyes, fabric creases across the left side of his face, the poster-child of really fucking hungover.

“Dean,” he said, and Dean blinked. Impressive.

“So I take it you remember at least some of last night,” he said, leaning against the doorway. “I was worried I'd have to convince you I hadn't kidnapped you.”

“Yesterday is unfortunately painfully clear,” Castiel mumbled as he tried to push himself up, only to wince and slump down again, rubbing the space between his eyebrows like he could rub the headache away. “As is this morning.”

Dean tried his best not to chuckle. Seemed rude.

“Hang on, I’ll get some Advil,” he said, turning and heading for one of the kitchen cabinets.

“I- That’s not-” Castiel called after him, cutting himself off with another pained groan. Dean grinned to himself as he got two pills, as well as a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. It was surprisingly nice to not be the one who was hungover for once.

Castiel was just pulling himself up to standing when he returned, swaying a little and bracing himself on he armrest.

“Dude, take it easy,” Dean said. Castiel didn’t listen, just pushed himself up further, ran a hand over his face and pulled a little at the hem of his shirt. Maybe trying to make himself look less like a fucking wreck, not that it helped much.

“I want to apologise for my behaviour last night,” he said, and it sounded very calm and formal, but he was frowning as in pain, almost squinting against the light coming from the kitchen behind Dean. “I usually never- It’s the first time- But it doesn’t matter, I’m deeply sorry for intruding in your home, no matter how accidental. Thank for your generosity, I’ll leave you to your day.”

Dean blinked. What?

Castiel took a step forward, toward the door, and Dean shook himself.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal,” he said, taking a step forward, not really sure why but it made Castiel come to a wobbly stop. “Here, take these, it’ll help with the hangover.”

He held the pills and the bottle out. Castiel just looked at them, the deep frown once again present.

“You don’t have to,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Dean’s. Dean shrugged.

“Well, you kinda look like shit, so you probably need it,” he wiggled the hand with the pills. “Come on.”

Castiel stood still a moment longer, then his shoulder dropped a bit and he took a step closer, holding out a hand. Dean dropped the pills in it and handed over the Gatorade, sighing when Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“Gotta hydrate. This got stuff that replenish the shit you’ve lost.”

Castiel took the bottle slowly, eyeing it with suspicion. Dean sighed again, louder, for effect, and got an annoyed look back. At least he took the pills, chasing it down with several mouthfuls of the drink and then wincing like it was painful, which it probably was. Dean was getting sympathy pains just looking at him.

“You should sit down for a bit, let the Advil have time to kick in before trying to go anywhere,” he said. Castiel looked at him, and there was that fucking expression again Dean couldn’t read, something intense and calculating like he was trying to crack Dean’s skull open with his _mind_. He tried his hardest not to shift under the gaze, just pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and settles his weight on his heels.

“I shouldn’t impose on you any longer,” Castiel said eventually, after a pause that was too long to not be noticeable, not that Dean was counting the seconds or anything.

“Impose? Dude, that ship sailed when you crawled through my window,” he laughed, cutting himself off when Castiel started to shift, his expression turning somewhat horrified. “Relax, I’m joking.”

“I should-”

“No stop-”

Castiel froze, and Dean wanted to kick himself.

“Okay, before it’s starting to sound like I’m actually trying to kidnap you. You’re definitely free to leave. I’m just saying that if you want to wait here until you can stand up without looking like a light breeze will knock you over, that’s fine with me. I’m not going to just kick you out.”

Another long pause. Dean wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Eventually Castiel seemed to relax a bit, and he gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Maybe for a little while longer. If you’re sure it’s not a problem.”

Dean shook his head.

“Of course not. I’m not an asshole.”

“Not at all,” Castiel mumbled, without hesitation, and Dean didn’t know how to respond to that so he didn’t.

Castiel took a step back, and half sat half fell back into the couch with a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead.

“Finish the bottle, it’ll make it a bit better,” Dean said, turning and walking into the kitchen to the coffeemaker. Coffee, he needed coffee. He filled a cup and downed half of it in one go. It burned all the way down, but by god was it worth it.

He refilled it and headed back for the living room, pausing to take a bottle of water from the fridge. If he was going to do something he might as well do it thoroughly. Castiel had only finished about half of the Gatorade when he returned, but Dean still handed him the water. Castiel took it with only a small frown. Progress.

“I’d offer you coffee but caffeine make hangovers worse so I’d suggest against it, sorry,” Dean said, leaning against the back of the opposite end of the couch. He didn’t want to hover, but it’d be weird if he went about getting ready for work while Castiel sat there in his couch, wouldn’t it?

“You seem to know a lot about this. Are you a doctor?” Castiel said, and, okay, maybe Dean froze a little bit, something like anger rustling in the back of his head, sharp words crawling across his tongue, before the tone caught up with him. He looked up, and yeah, Castiel had an expression of quiet curiosity on his face. Nothing taunting or demeaning, nothing to suggest Dean was being made fun of. He swallowed, dropping his shoulders and focused on a random spot above the window.

“No, just got a lot of experience with hangovers,” he said, trying to sound causal, but fuck if it didn’t come out a little bitter. Him? A doctor? Ha fucking ha.

“Oh,” was all Castiel said. Probably sensing the shift in mood. Great, now he was making the guy uncomfortable, well done there, excellent work, like it wasn’t already weird as fuck, hurray-.

“Well, lucky for me,” Castiel continued, and Dean blinked. “It might be placebo, but I’m already feeling a little better.” He wiggled his hand, making the drink swirl around the bottle, before taking another couple of mouthfuls.

Dean breathed out through his nose, pushing the weird feeling in his stomach away to think about never.

“Well, as long as it works,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But as I said, it’s supposed to do good. ’Course, it’s even better to have a bottle or two before you even start drinking.”

Castiel sighed, leaning back in the couch.

“I could say I’ll remember that until next time, but I doubt there will be a next time. Shouldn’t even have been a this time.”

“Hm?” Dean said, despite himself. He didn’t want to go poking his noise where it didn’t belong, but it felt like a neutral enough answer and he had to say _something_ , didn’t he?

Castiel glanced up at him.

“I’m not usually in the habit of getting myself wasted enough to climb through stranger’s windows.”

Dean chocked a little on his coffee. Castiel ignored it and continued.

“I just got back to town, my brothers wanted to take me out to celebrate. I’ve only been away since, well, March; so, five? No, six months, not a particularly long time but we’ve always been very close in my family.” He paused, frowning to himself. “At least in proximity. Normally I don’t even drink but- Last night-“ His shoulder slumped. “Family can be... a little trying sometimes. I suppose I got carried away.”

Castiel still wasn’t looking at him, apparently very interesting in the bottle in his hands. Which was good, because Dean was maybe staring a little, his brain frozen on a quiet loop of “backtrack, backtrack now”. The conversation had taken a turn down a particular road he had become very good at avoiding in his daily life. Family was... well, nothing he felt very keen on discussing with a stranger _(semi-stranger)_ on a random Thursday morning after only half a cup of coffee, to say the least.

He had to say something though, would be rude otherwise. Not to mention awkward.

“I’m mostly just impressed you made it up five flights of fire escape,” he found himself saying, which wasn’t that bad. Castiel even chuckled, a surprisingly warm and genuine one. It was nice. Dean liked it.

Well.

“I’ve been told I can be very determined when I set my mind to something,” Castiel said, still smiling a little. He drained the last of the Gatorade, and Dean could practically feel the tension leave the room.

Castiel stood up, slowly but a lot more steadily this time, and while he still look pretty rough he was seemed a little more awake and clearheaded.

“I really should get going,” he said, and this time Dean didn’t protest, just nodded. “I’m feeling a lot better, and I’m very grateful for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s your stuff, by the way.” Dean pointed to where he’d folded up Castiel’s jacket and put his shoes, beside the couch table.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and went to pick it up. It took him maybe a little longer than normal to tie the shoes and put on the trench coat, movements slow and perhaps a little stiff _(the couch, while comfortable, was after all a couch)_ , and Dean couldn’t for the life of him come up with something to say, or do, besides standing there awkwardly drinking his coffee.

Eventually Castiel straightened up, and met Dean’s eyes. Dean forced himself not to shift.

“I’m very grateful for your help, Dean,” he said. “I will of course compensate you, if you want me to.”

Dean blinked. What.

“What?”

“I could at least pay for the sport drink and the water?” Castiel looked at him expectantly. Dean shook himself.

“Oh. No, you don’t- I mean, come on, it’s-” Dean stopped, and cleared his throat. “It’s nothing, really, don’t worry about it.” Okay, so maybe that was a tiny lie. He didn’t exactly have that much extra money, and the occasional sport drink _(or, more often, energy drink)_ was one of the few things he allowed himself to spend it on. But this was awkward enough as it was, and he wasn’t sure he could take it standing there while Castiel handed him money as well.

Castiel looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded.

They walked together toward the door, and Dean wanted to say something but had no idea what. Castiel paused by the door, one hand on the door handle, and turned again toward Dean.

“Thank you,” he said, _again_ , and Dean should probably say something but only managed a shrugged and a half-hearted smile. How many times could one guy keep saying thank you? It was getting weird, wasn’t it? It hadn’t even been that much of a deal. He’d offered a couch and an Advil, not his damn kidney.

“Have a nice day,” Castiel said, and Dean stumbled over his own thoughts.

“You too- uh, nice,” he started, trailing off as Castiel pushed the door open and took a step out.

“Coffee,” Dean said, and, okay, wow. Smooth. Fucking hell.

Castiel turned, frowning.

“What?”

“There’s- You probably know it, the coffee shop down the street? Nice place, great coffee.”

Castiel was still frowning, and Dean continued, grip tightening around the coffee cup in his hands.

“Was just thinking. If you- Not today, I got work soon,” he glanced over his shoulder at the clock visible from the living room. He was already running late. ”You should stay off caffeine anyway. But, another day? You can pay, if you still want to compensate me.” He cut himself off. Way to sound like an asshole. “You don’t have to. You could just tell me how you got the locked window open without a key, that’s-”

“Sure,” Castiel interrupted. Dean’s mouth snapped shut. “That’d be nice. Would Saturday work for you? Around lunch? I can tell you about the window trick then.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and Castiel nodded.

“See you there?”

“Okay,” Dean said, again, shook himself. “I mean, yeah, sure, that works.”

Castiel smiled, and Dean smiled back, then watched as Castiel stepped out of the apartment. He even did a little wave, then immediately slapped his own forehead as soon as the door closed.

Turning, he leaned his back against the door, resisting the urge to bang the back of his head against it only because Castiel would probably hear, and no. Just no.

He pushed himself off the door and walked into the living room, and ended up watching the empty bottle of Gatorade that Castiel had left standing on the coffee table for a few moments, not entirely sure how any of this was his actual real life. Then he remembered he was going to be so fucking late if he didn’t get a move on, and scrambled to collect his things only to freeze on his way to the door. He lived five flights up, without an elevator, and Castiel had to navigate that while hangover. It’d only been a few minutes, it was possible the guy was still in the process of descending the stairs and there was no force on earth that could convince Dean to risk having to rush past Castiel and having to do the whole “hi... bye” thing.

He was going to have to give Castiel at least a few more minutes’ head start, but that would mean he’d be even more late. Dean looked from the door to the clock on the wall, then glanced over to the window with the fire escape.

...ah, no.

No way.

He sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand and reaching for his phone with the other. Whatever, he could be half an hour late for work, this one time.

Someone _had_ broken into his apartment last night, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and done. well, it was supposed to be a one shot but in true me fashion, i already got headcanons for potential following chapters. but i'm a low key anxious person and when it comes to writing i'm slower than a dead slug so don't expect anything
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading!
> 
> (i'm always a slut for comments *wink wink nudge nudge*)
> 
> tumblr: archerdork.tumblr.com


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